HA 4b: Minerva

HIM AGAIN: Chapter 4: Marred Dream - Minerva

As the Chief Auror made his way swiftly home, his son was staring at the ceiling, thoroughly bored. A life lacking in all worry was all very well, but at least a little stress kept one occupied.

Albus had found the past three months almost insanity-inducing in their boredom. He was imprisoned in a body too weak to do anything but lie in a cot and occasionally squirm towards some uninteresting toy thrown in beside him. Apart from when Harry picked him up and talked to him, Albus had found his new life one of uninterrupted monotony. Luckily, Harry talked to him quite often - something which Albus half enjoyed and half dreaded - it gave him the same feeling as when reading the ending of a wonderful book, to find it so bittersweet and powerful that it felt as though the author was playing a melody on his heartstrings.

Harry would pick him up and pace around, speaking softly all the while. Sometimes he didn’t look at Albus when doing so, but would gaze into the distance, as if he was sending his soul far away in an attempt to dim what was around him - in a way that would throw Albus back to when Harry had been his student. How many times had he seen Harry looking that way, somehow stepping beyond the material world with his mind alone? How many times had he looked over his meal to see Harry at the Gryffindor table, oblivious to all but the dreams dancing in his head? Too many times. It had pained him then and it still pained him now.

It was particularly disturbing, as it was obvious that Harry would not have wished anyone who understood the English language to be present when he spoke to himself as he did when holding Albus. Sometimes things were fine and Harry would talk about work, and what he’d done that day, and what would happen when ‘Brian’ was old enough to talk back to him.

“I don’t know whether I’d wish the profession of an Auror on anyone,” he’d said the other day. “Still, at least I don’t have to deal with some ogre ordering me around. Not now I’m the ogre.”
Other times, however, Albus wished he was a million miles around, just so as not to have to see Harry when he thought he was alone with the blissful naivety of a child. It would always start with Harry talking about Brian going to school, and how he’d one day go to Hogwarts. Then, inevitably, Harry would begin to talk about his own days at Hogwarts. That had happened only the day before.

“Hogwarts is a good school, Brian,” he’d said, brilliant green eyes glazed with memory. “I had some good times there - and you will too. But…” He’d paused then and Albus’s soul had stiffened with dreadful anticipation. “But… my school days were disrupted a bit, weren’t they? I had a lot of fun there… but…things weren’t all right. I met some people who cared about me - for the first time in my life - there. But I lost a lot of people, too. I’m lucky to be alive…” His voice drifted off.
Albus saw him look down at him, eyes still distant. “A lot of things… A lot of things I probably won’t ever tell you - not properly. And what I will tell you, you probably won’t understand. I’ll go on about all these people who will just be names to you. And it’s like World War One, Brian, with the muggles. Everybody said that they’d remember forever - but they’ve forgotten already. It’s the same here. Everybody said - ‘let all those fell for what is good and what is right be remembered forever.’ But you… You and all of the generations after won’t really remember. You’ll probably hear about it in History of Magic - and you’ll probably go to sleep too, just like I did with Binns and his goblin rebellions.”

Albus, lying in his arms and a part of him writhing in sadness for Harry, agreed bitterly. Who now remembered the struggles and heartbreaks of a mere century ago? Who now truly remembered Grindelwald, and what sorrow he had wrought? Only a few ancient witches and wizards, whose tongues held no interest to a young world. And it would be worse for poor Harry. Nobody deserved to be a war veteran at twenty-four.

“Brian…” Harry whispered. “I wish… I wish you could meet them. All of them. You’ll meet Moody, probably, and the Weasleys, and Remus, and Professor McGonagall. But you’ll never meet Sirius, or the man I named you after.”

Miserably, Albus tried to think of someone called Brian to whom Harry could possibly be referring. Trying to place that person was preferable to thinking about the feelings this grim conversation aroused.

“Sirius was great fun, Brian. He was like a big brother to me. A wonderful big brother. And the man I named you after was the wisest and nicest man I have ever met. I’ve always tried to be like him.”

‘Brian’ would have frowned with confusion and concentration at this point, if he’d had sufficient control of his face. Harry had always been a relatively introverted and distrustful person - who on earth could he have held in such esteem as to try and emulate? Albus wracked his brains, but no sufficiently wonderful person stepped forth.

“I wish you could have met him,” Harry said softly. “He was the headmaster then and he was like a grandfather to me.”

Albus felt tears well up in his eyes. His heart seemed to swell and push against his ribcage. Harry - his Harry - had thought so much of him, and had called his own son after him. Had he been ‘himself,’ he would have blushed with embarrassment and pleasure. Harry, my boy. You were the grandson I never had.

Right then, Albus felt like attempting to say aloud a desire that he’d long suppressed. Knowing the futility of it, however, he kept his jaw clamped, but his mind still said the words in the darkness of his skull. I would have adopted you, if I’d have thought you’d have wanted it.

Another regret to chew on when he was alone. In some ways, life was too short - and that aspect he’d wasted. He was so moved and distracted by that thought and by what Harry had said that he was unable to focus on Harry’s words long enough to actually hear them. It was only by the mention of a name that his full attention was regained.

“…Professor McGonagall, Brian. She was my old Head of House, but she’s Headmistress now. She’s nice but very strict. I wish you could have seen her, before…” Harry sighed deeply, so that Albus felt the chest against him move.

His mind sharpened in alarm. He blinked away the pleasant images of a smiling Minerva which had arisen, quite unexpectedly, at Harry’s mention. Before what? What had happened to Minerva?

“She’s never been the same since…” Harry’s voice drifted off and he looked sad.
Albus’s stomach wove itself into knots. Images of an injured Minerva floated before him. He wished that Harry had said more about the subject so he could have learnt more, but Harry had moved onto something else after that - meaning that he worried about it now. Albus let a tiny sigh escape his small body. He hoped that Harry would talk to him again that evening.

Just as he was remembering all this, Ginny walked into the room. From his limited view, Albus could see that she was holding a bottle of milk. Luckily for him, his constant refusals to be breast-fed had gotten through fairly quickly - which was a relief. Circumstances may have changed, he thought, but there was no excuse for such knowing impropriety as that!

He waved his arms at the smiling face framed with red that hovered above him as Ginny picked him up and thrust the bottle in his mouth. He sucked obediently - there was no sense in being a difficult baby, after all - and somewhat ashamedly savoured the maternal warmth around him. There was an odd joy in being able to be loved like that again - it made him recall his own mother, a friendly, kind woman called Maria.

“Be a good boy, Brian,” Ginny murmured at him in that high, baby-voice she always used when talking to him. Albus wondered what her reaction would be if she knew that she was cooing at her former headmaster. “You’ve got a visitor today! Two visitors. Hermione - you know Hermione by now, don’t you? Oh, and Professor McGonagall!”

Albus nearly choked on his milk. Minerva! He would be seeing Minerva! He became aware of a sudden, deep need to see Minerva - to perhaps be held by Minerva… Harry’s sighs and low words returned to him. He would be able to see what was wrong with ‘Professor McGonagall’ himself. Hearing Minerva called ‘Professor McGonagall’ was quite strange; he hadn’t called her that himself in years - to think of doing so was somehow absurd…

Right on cue, the sound of the front door creaking open reached him. Harry strode into the room, smiling, accompanied by Hermione and his ’Professor McGonagall.’ Albus’s eyes went straight to Minerva.

“Arrived at the same time you did,” Harry said happily. “Professor - it’s good to see you again-”

“Professor!” Ginny cried joyfully. “Perhaps a cup of tea?”

That wasn’t Minerva.

That was his first reaction - the person who had entered the room looked only vaguely like Minerva, as though she were a distant relative. Minerva was the goddess she had been named for - pride was in her step and fire was in her eye, with strength as her servant - Albus’s inner descriptions tended to become progressively more poetic, until he snapped himself out it. The person who had entered the room was an old woman leaning heavily on a stick, lines carved deeply into her face and her eyes dimmed as though dust had coated the irises. Albus hardly noticed the small smile that etched the lines deeper still; he was too busy staring at the pitch black robes and the pale skin in disbelief, and in sensing the heavy aura of sadness and exhaustion this woman carried with her.

A flash of memory came to him, of a tall girl with raven hair bent downwards with books, who answered questions in an impeccably precise manner, unaware of the fact that half the male population at Hogwarts was watching her. Then another, of a young woman with full lips and emerald eyes, with hair creating a seductive night behind her. When had she gotten this old? Of course, having seen her through the different stages of her life, Albus had always nursed the image of a young woman in the bloom of her time as a part of the filing cabinet in his brain entitled ‘Minerva McGonagall.’ Yet as she had grown older, she had matured like wine - becoming just statelier in her presence and beauty. He had never noticed the old woman emerging…

No, surely, that wasn’t Minerva…

With horror, he saw again the lines and too prominent cheekbones - the emaciated skull which had once been Minerva. Under the billowing black robes, he couldn’t even fully comprehend how thin she must be. What had happened to her?

“Here, Professor - would you like to hold him?” Ginny said, offering him up.

His Minerva smiled thinly down at him and took him in her arms. Even through the thick black robes he could feel how bony and insubstantial her warmth was. Distressed, he kicked his legs and let out an unconscious murmur. Her arms enfolded him, and it had all the bitterness of a marred dream.

Then he stilled with silent agony. He wanted to scream “it’s me!” but there was no way he could.

He stared into the misty eyes and wished that he were himself again, with his old body, so that he could enfold her in his arms and ease whatever pain had brought old age so suddenly upon her.